Wanted
by Strawberry Shortcake123
Summary: Tony and Ziva's daughter tries to understand their family's past and where she fits into its present. Companion twoshot to Worthy.
1. Part One

**Today I am posting my six final stories as a part of the NCIS fan fiction community. Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, favoriting and alerting my stories- you all have made my time here worthwhile.**

**This story is a twoshot companion to my longfic, Worthy, and won't make a whole lot of sense unless you've already read that. Angelina is fourteen here.**

Angelina is seething as she stares at her mother's retreating back. She inhales deeply, trying to calm herself… and then she replays the argument they just had in her head and gets angry all over again.

She stuffs the last bite of her sandwich in her mouth and plunks the empty plate down in the sink with a little more force than necessary. Houston looks up from his own lunch.

"What?" she snaps. Without waiting for an answer, she starts for the door. "I'm going to the park."

"Dad said you're not supposed to leave after you and Mom have fights," Houston reports. As if she'd forgotten.

She sends a glare over her shoulder. "I don't care."

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The July sun is hot, and beads of sweat roll down her face, but that doesn't keep her from hurrying along the sidewalk. Her only objective right now is to distance herself from the house and her mom. She needs peace to clear her head.

When Angelina arrives at the park, she takes a quick scan of her surroundings and is relieved to find that nobody else is here. She lowers herself onto a bench and presses her thighs against her chest. Her mind's eye begins to replay the earlier drama, but her anger had been so intense; she seems to have forgotten a lot of the specific words used. It had started when her mom asked if Angelina was going to study for her math test. Angelina had snapped in response; from there, it escalated quickly. Soon, she was yelling and her mother was crying, face red with rage.

The two of them had never had a big fight until about six months ago; recently, they've become a weekly occurrence. Angelina hates it. She hates having her parents mad at her. She hates that her little brother keeps witnessing his mom and sister at their worst.

And yet, when the time comes to bite her tongue, she can't do it.

A sudden sense of loneliness sweeps over her. Tears sting the backs of her eyes, and, as she rests her forehead on her knees, she allows them to spill over for just a minute. Then she tells herself to suck it up. She stops crying, but keeps her head down. To raise it would mean to face the world, and she's not ready for that.

Some time passes before she looks up. The park is no longer deserted; a woman is walking toward the jungle gym with a little kid in tow. The kid breaks away from her, but she scoops him up, tapping his nose as she does so. Angelina has to avert her gaze. Scenes like this are sometimes hard for her to watch, because lately, she is very aware of the fact that a large portion of her own childhood did not include her mother.

"Ang?"

She cringes even as a small part of her is relieved to hear her dad's voice. A second later, he has come around the bench and is standing in front of her, hands in his pockets.

"Heard you and your mom had another problem," he begins gently. When she doesn't answer, he adds, "Houston told me you left."

"Of course he did," she grumbles.

"We don't want you running around outside when you're upset. It's not a good idea."

She clenches her jaw. "So you want me to be held hostage in the house with _her_?"

"Angelina," he says. She hates the tone- so exhausted, so sad- and mentally berates herself for doing this to him.

"Sorry," she mumbles.

Her dad sits on the bench, leaving a good chunk of space between them. Angelina places her feet flat on the ground and stares at them. It is he who speaks next. "What's going on?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know why you're screaming at your mother all the time?"

"Isn't that what teenagers are supposed to do?" she challenges. "Fight with their parents?"

He pauses. Then: "I guess so… except that this family has a bit of a… strange history. And I'm concerned about the role it might be playing here."

Angelina sighs.

"Sweetheart. Talk to me."

She stubbornly stares into the empty space beside her. Even though she refuses to look at him, she can feel her dad's expectant stare drilling into the back of her head. Their silent standoff lasts almost a full minute before she says, "I'm not stupid. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that I'm the least important member of this family."

"What?" His hand is on her chin, gently pulling it toward him. "What are you talking about?"

This is so wrong, because his face is twisted in genuine hurt and distress, and it shouldn't be. Angelina _adores_ her father; he is the last person in the world she wants to cause pain. "Not you, Daddy. You… you're the only one who's always wanted me."

"_What?_" he asks again, more incredulous this time. "Where is this coming from?"

"Mom disappeared. She didn't want me," Angelina says matter-of-factly. She is proud of herself for keeping a steady voice. "And then, you know, she came back, and suddenly she decided she _did_ want a kid… you guys spent, like, forever trying to adopt Houston. Because you both wanted _him_."

Her dad is shaking his head vigorously. "No, Ang. It's not like that."

"Then what _is_ it like?" A little bit of her patience is lost. "Nobody's ever _told_ me why Mom didn't used to be here, you know."

"Yeah," he sighs. "I know." When she sneaks a glance at him, she finds that he is pinching the bridge of his nose.

Angelina has memories of her early childhood, a time during which she lived only with her father. Most of them are good and involve ice cream or movies or laughter. Then there are others- one in particular is of him looking at a photo of her absent mother and crying.

Angelina has never been given an explanation- a real one- as to why she didn't meet her mom until she was five years old. Whatever the reason, she knows it was bad. That her dad was hurt terribly.

Did they honestly expect her not to wonder?

He slips an arm around her. "Come here." Angelina willingly leans into his side, rests her head on his shoulder. Even on her darkest days, her dad is her greatest comfort. "Listen. You absolutely have the right to know what happened… but it's so complicated. I couldn't possibly sit here and explain and make you understand within the next ten minutes."

Angelina slumps. "Just try."

He pauses, then pats her knee. She sits up straight and meets his eyes. "Ever heard of postpartum depression?"

She is reminded of her health class last year, when the teacher took it upon herself to share every single potential downside of pregnancy. "Kind of."

"It's where you, like… you feel a disconnect from your baby. Fear… hurting it and stuff like that. That's why she left. Because she loved you, and she couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to you."

"Did she do something to me?" Angelina asks, her heart rate speeding up. She imagines her mom holding a baby while being as angry as she was earlier today.

Before the thought can be completed, her dad is shaking his head. "No. Never."

"So… in other words, that was an excuse to abandon us."

She knows that she's crossed some sort of line even before her father knits his brows together and sternly says, "Angelina."

"Sorry."

"You just… you need to give _her_ a chance to explain. She didn't want to go. There has never been one moment in your life when she didn't love you. I know it's hard to understand, but… try?"

He is pleading now, and what else can she say? "Sure, Daddy."

"Thanks."

He pulls her close again. Into her hair, he whispers, "You're my girl."

Angelina wipes her eyes. "I know."


	2. Part Two

In the third grade, Angelina proudly declared to the boy sitting beside her, "When I grow up, I'm gonna be in the police, just like my daddy."

The boy said, "Did you know cops shoot people?"

She stared at him, stricken. "They do not!"

The teacher shushed them then, but for the rest of the day, Angelina was bothered. Her mind kept drifting back to the accusation leveled at her beloved father, and, with a sense of dread, she remembered his gun. Every single morning of her entire life, he'd taken it out of the box she wasn't allowed to touch and returned it there at the end of the day. Frantically, she tried to think of a reason, _any_ reason, he would be carrying that gun if not to hurt people.

She couldn't.

That night, she waited until her mom was giving Houston his bath before cornering her dad in the kitchen, where he was just starting the dishwasher. "Hey, Ang," he said. "What's up?"

She opened her mouth, but the words wouldn't come. Before she knew what she was doing, she had thrown herself into his arms. "You've never killed anyone, right, Daddy? Right?"

He stiffened, and she knew.

"Let's go talk in your room, baby," he said. When she didn't relinquish her hold on him, he scooped her up, which he rarely did anymore. And even though she felt like she no longer knew him, Angelina clung to his neck.

He closed the bedroom door behind them and sat on the bed, positioning her in his lap as he went. Now that they were in this confined space and she was about to hear the truth, she couldn't bear being so close to him. She crawled onto the floor, trying not to notice the hurt in his eyes.

"Ang, Gibbs and Uncle Tim and me… we catch bad guys. You know that. And a lot of times, they do… kill people. Good people. So when we arrest them, when we put them in jail, we're keeping others safe."

Angelina waited for the rest.

Finally, her dad sighed. "You're old enough now, I guess, for me to tell you that things don't always go as planned. Usually, we put them in jail after… after they've already broken the law. But once in a while, we catch them before, and it becomes our responsibility to… our first responsibility is to get _everybody_ out safe, good or bad. But if they… if they attack _us_, or somebody else, another innocent person… we can't let that happen, Angelina. Do you understand?"

Unwelcome images formed in her mind, causing her stomach to turn over. _I want Mommy,_ she thought, but then he was kneeling on the carpet in front of her, reaching out to cup her face. "Ang, taking a person's life is never the right thing to do. Sometimes, it's just less wrong."

That was when she began to sob. He pulled her into him, and she allowed it, even as hopelessness settled over her.

Because if her daddy wasn't flawless, her world had just changed. For the worse.

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As Angelina walks toward her parent's room now, she is remembering this incident. It has occurred to her that, ultimately, she was and still is willing to overlook her dad's faults- and so, she grudgingly admits to herself, she should extend the same courtesy to her mother.

Or, at least, try to _understand_ her actions, like she already promised she would.

She knocks hesitantly on the bedroom door. There is no response for several seconds, then: "Come in." As Angelina enters, her mom, seated in the middle of the bed, looks up and offers a wan smile. "Hi, sweetheart."

"Hi," she replies, swallowing loudly. "Um. I just…"

Her mom pats the comforter. "Sit with me."

Angelina gingerly climbs up, staying close to the edge, as if preparing to make a quick escape. Her mother's eyes are rimmed in red; she isn't crying now, though, and that's a relief. It gives her hope that, maybe, possibly, they will be able to proceed with level heads.

Several beats pass before Angelina gathers the courage to speak. "I'm sorry," she blurts out. "That I freaked out on you."

"I'm sorry that I was bothering you about the math."

"You just asked if I studied-"

"Yes, but it wasn't strictly necessary. You've never gotten less than an A in your life; you do not need me checking up on you." Smiling gently, her mom adds, "We were both in the wrong. There is no point dwelling on it now. Let's just move on."

And that's fine, really, as far as tests and grades go. Angelina _does_ take care of her schoolwork; there doesn't need to be any additional discussion of this particular argument. It's over. It's through.

But the underlying reason for the constant fighting has nothing to do with school- and they both know what the elephant in the room is.

Angelina clutches a pillow to her chest and shifts closer to her mother. Her palms are slick with sweat; she flattens them against the cotton. "Mom," she says quickly, not giving herself the chance to chicken out, "why did you leave?"

Her mom tenses, but doesn't look terribly surprised. "It's complicated."

"Obviously." Jeez. Is that her parents' agreed-upon go-to response for every question they don't want to answer? "But I think we should… talk about it."

Silence falls. Just as she is about to give up and leave, her mom turns toward her, eyes shining with unshed tears. _Something_ in that gaze keeps Angelina right where she is. "I named you," her mother says. "Did you know that?"

She's taken aback; it's not like she's given a lot of thought to how her name came to be what it is, but she had sort of assumed her father had picked it out. After all, that would make the most sense, wouldn't it? _He_ was the one who taught her to speak and walk and read.

_He_ was the one who raised her.

"No," Angelina says evenly. "Why… where did you get the name?"

Her mom waves a hand. "I don't remember where I heard it. But I do remember that the night you were born, while your father was asleep in a chair beside my hospital bed, I got up and went to the nursery. I stood in front of the glass for a long time, looking at you, and… the name Angelina came to me, and it seemed to fit so well. I went to wake up your dad just so I could tell him."

This whole story is new to Angelina, and she is hanging onto every word. "What did he say?"

"Well, he had really wanted to name you Gabrielle after a character from some soap opera he liked in college, but he agreed to use that as your middle name instead."

She isn't sure whether to laugh at the fact that her dad used to watch soaps or cry because of the scene her mother has painted in her mind of a family excitedly naming their child in the middle of the night.

A child that they both _wanted_.

"I don't get it, Mom," Angelina says, and her voice cracks on the last word.

"You don't get what?"

"Why you had a baby and named her and took care of her… and then just left."

She decided on her way here that she would not give any indication that she knows about the postpartum depression, about the great fear that lived in her mother's heart back then. This is her mom's chance to explain. Angelina will not put words in her mouth.

"_Yaldah metukah sheli,_" comes the sigh, a Hebrew term of endearment. Despite everything, the soft words comfort Angelina the way a warm blanket would. "My mind and my heart… they were not in a good place at that time."

Her mother pauses, then amends: "No, actually, the problem… the problem was that they weren't in the _same_ place. My heart was with you, and my mind… my mind was not. It was preoccupied with all the guilt I had accumulated over the years. It told me that my love was tainted, and no good for you."

At this point, Angelina is lost. She nods along without a clue as to what she is claiming to understand. _What guilt?_

"It took a long time," her mom continues, smoothing back her own hair, "but I eventually realized that none of the things in my past mattered when it came to you. I adored you. I still do. That love is pure, regardless of who I am or where I came from."

Questions are poised on Angelina's lips, but the door opens and her eyes dart over to her father, standing there with a bowl of strawberry ice cream in each hand. He gives them a tentative smile. "Hey," he says softly. "Can I come in?"

"Sure," Angelina answers. She is grateful, in the midst of this painful, confusing conversation, for the presence of the one person who has remained constant throughout her life. As she scoots over to make room for him, he nudges her reassuringly.

"Thank you, Tony," her mother says, taking a spoonful from the bowl he has given her. Angelina digs in, too, and thinks about the fact that the men of the house hate this flavor, while she and her mom love it.

It seems to be one of the only things the two of them share.

There is silence, save for the clinking of silver on porcelain. From downstairs comes a frustrated howl and the sorrowful _doo-doop _as a life is lost in some video game.

"What about Houston?" Angelina asks suddenly.

Her parents exchange a look. It's quick and fleeting, but it's definitely there. "What about him?" her dad replies.

"If I was this big mistake-"

"You weren't-"

"-and I caused a bunch of problems, then why would you go to all that effort for another kid?"

She bites her lip, hoping her words don't sound resentful of Houston, because that's not how she feels. At all. But she does have to wonder- what sense does it make that her mother abandoned her biological child, then volunteered to raise another's?

What about her, Angelina, was so unworthy back then… and what about Houston was so spectacular?

Suddenly, her mother is standing right in front of her. Angelina swallows quickly and looks up to meet her pained brown eyes. "I'm just wondering," she clarifies weakly. _I feel a little, teeny-tiny bit inferior, _she adds in her head, _but I'll get over it, Mom. I will._

"We adopted Houston because of _you_," her mom breathes, as if she can't believe that her daughter didn't understand before.

And Angelina doesn't. "What?"

"Once I returned and the three of us got settled together again, we decided that we wanted to give you a sibling." Her mother glances to the left, in the direction of her father. Angelina doesn't look over there, but she imagines that he gives a nod of approval, because her mom continues. "We met Houston before we got pregnant, and adoption wasn't something we were looking into up until then… but he didn't have a home, Angelina, and it was _you_ who inspired us to give him one."

She does a quick mental calculation. When this was going on, she would have been… six? Seven? And, if she is remembering correctly, she didn't even _know_ about Houston until right before he came to live with them.

Her dad curls his fingers around the back of her neck until she meets his gaze. As if reading her mind, he says, "Having you in our lives, and being as blessed as we were- as we _are_- made us want to help him. Even more than that… you taught us a lot, Ang. You taught us how to be a family, even when everything was falling apart at the seams. And because of you, we were strong enough to let Houston into our family, too."

_Because of you._

_Because of you, _a voice in the back of her mind has whispered her whole life, _Mom left Daddy. It's _your_ fault._

But now they are looking at her expectantly, waiting for a reaction to what they've just divulged: she might have been the cause of something bad, but she was also the cause of something undeniably _good_.

And which one is more important, really?

A small sob escapes from Angelina's throat, and then she is pulled into a pair of strong, capable arms. Her mom shushes her gently, smoothes down her hair, kisses her temple.

Hebrew is whispered in her ear. Angelina doesn't understand it. She just replies with, "I love you."

And her mother holds her like she'll never let go.


End file.
